Tea & Ceshire Cats

He sat on his deck watching her. Her laughter drifted up from the shore.

Lovely to see someone so light. So happy.

She’d been like that as a girl. Bubbly and giggly. But he also remembered how deeply absorbed she could become, searching for seashells or building forts in the sand.

He took a sip from his tea. No surprise Chris was proud of her. With all she had been through, she’d grown into a beautiful young woman. Free-spirited and carefree.

It was a breath of fresh air to have her around.

She turned and looked up towards his house. He was sitting on his deck, gazing out at the beach.

Reclusive. Withdrawn. Sitting there in silence. Probably listening to the ocean.

He was so different from other people she knew. Quiet and reserved. She’d always liked coming to the beach house in summer, knowing he was here too.

Her dark guardian angel. She’d imagined him watching over her.

With the black hair and luminous green eyes, he did look the part.

Well, his books certainly told a different story. For a writer who preferred so much quietude, she’d expected him to write quiet stories. Apparently, his imagination was anything but angelic.

Loki Kerr, internationally bestselling author of dark contemporary fiction, known for his atmospheric prose, morally complicated characters and unflinching explorations of human desire.

She’d read some version of that description more than once. On book jackets. In magazines. Interviews.

Maybe it was this dark depth he carried that made him so fascinating.

She called his name and waved.

He waved back, offering her a smile.

A short while later, there was a knock on the veranda door. Loki looked up from his laptop.

Isobel popped her head in.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” she offered with a shy smile. “Can I come in?”

He pushed his glasses up onto his head.

“You’re not intruding,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I just wanted to say hi and bring a peace offering.” She held up a plate of muffins as she stepped into the lounge.

He’d changed the carpet, she noticed. It was thicker. Softer.

“A peace offering?”

“Well, I’ll be around for a few weeks. So I guess this is the end of a peaceful and quiet neighbourhood for you.” She shrugged.

Loki chuckled.

Fine crinkles appeared around his eyes as he looked at her. She really had missed those eyes.

“Haven’t been here in ages,” she said, letting her gaze wander. Dark green walls, blending perfectly with the dark oak furniture. White raftered ceiling. Everything was as immaculate as she remembered.

“You were at least a head smaller last time I saw you.” He watched as she inspected his home.

Her face had changed, but her eyes still held the same inquisitive curiosity.

“I must have been—fifteen?”

His desk was still in the same place, close to the kitchen. He loved tea.

“Sixteen,” he corrected her. “You have changed.”

She walked up to him. Sitting behind the heavy oak desk, he looked less like a writer and more like a character from one of his books.

“Well, you haven’t. Changed, I mean. But then, you were already old last time I was here,” she teased with a grin.

“Why, thank you, Miss Charming. I can see why you brought a peace offering.”

“No offence, but twenty years older will always be old to me.”

He feigned offence.

“And you will have to bring at least one more peace offering for your audacity.”

“You know I’m not serious.”

“You’ve always been cheeky.”

“And you always intimidated me.”

“I did?” He rose, straightening to his full height. He stood a head taller than her.

She rolled her eyes.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked, a faint smile tugging on his lips.

“I’d love to.” She paused. “But I—haven’t interrupted you, have I?”

“I would let you know if you had.”

He filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

It was kind of cute how eccentric he was in some ways. The gas stove was brand new. Immaculate. The kettle was worn. She was sure it was the same one he’d brewed tea in the last time she’d seen him, around eight years ago.

“Chris said you’re going to stay for the rest of the summer?”

“That’s the plan.”

Isobel hadn’t been sure what to expect when she came over. She was pleasantly surprised that she felt as comfortable as ever around Loki. The same seemed to be true for him.

“Don’t girls your age prefer to party? Spend the summer somewhere a little less—secluded?”

She shrugged.

“I’ve got my arts degree now. Thought it would be nice to come out here and paint.” She side-eyed him. “The area seems to be pretty conducive to creative activities, since bestselling authors wrote their bestselling novels here.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t look at her.

She watched as he pulled a tin of tea from a shelf. His fingers were slender, his touch almost deliberate. Conscious. Just like she remembered.

“There will be parties, though,” she said. “Some of my friends from art school will come over. I’ll warn you, though. Dad gave me your number.”

He looked at her. As soon as she’d stepped through the door, it felt as though she’d only been gone for one year. Not for eight. Having her around the house had been one of the reasons Loki used to look forward to summer. It seemed that not much had changed between them.

“He asked me to keep an eye on you, so don’t do anything you don’t want reported back to him.”

“I won’t.”

The kettle whistled. Isobel grinned.

The sound immediately brought back memories. Cosy memories of hot chocolate and marshmallows and watching Loki write.

“Sugar?”

“Not if it’s good tea.”

“It is the best tea for miles.”

She watched as he poured the boiling water into two cups, a stainless-steel strainer in each. A quiet, deliberate grace lay even in small movements like this.

“So, what kind of story are you writing at the moment?”

“A novel.”

“Well, I figured as much.”

She’d expected him to say something witty. Instead, a look of frustration crossed his features.

“I am—actually not progressing the way I would like to,” he said as he stirred the tea leaves, then removed the strainers.

He pulled open the fridge.

“Do you still take cream?”

“I do.”

“Lucky, because I do not have any milk.”

She chuckled.

He’d forgotten how that sound made him relax. How easy it was having her around.

“You still remember that I had cream in my tea?”

“You wanted cream in yours because I took cream in mine.”

“True.”

“Deck?” he asked.

“Shall I bring the muffins?”

“Absolutely.”

She followed him through the lounge.

“I could be your muse, if you need one,” she said as they stepped out onto the deck.

“A chocolate-muffin muse?” he teased, settling into a deck chair and picking a muffin off the plate.

Isobel took a deep breath and looked out at the ocean. She had missed this.

For a moment they sat in silence.

“Do you want to tell me what it’s about?” she asked and turned to face him.

He looked at her.

“What is what about?”

“Your novel.”

“A man,” he began, then paused.

“And?”

“A man who lives at the beach. By himself. Looking for a muse.”

She scowled at him.

He grinned, took a sip of his tea and turned his gaze towards the ocean.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ve got six weeks to figure it out.”

Loki took a bite from his muffin.

“Oh, praise the Lord,” he said around the mouthful. “Did you make these?”

“Mum’s recipe.”

“I missed these.”

He really had.

Receiving home-baked goods from his neighbours had been a little piece of domestic indulgence. And then he’d ruined it eight years ago and regained his solitude.

“I’m sorry about your mother. I was at the funeral, but I—didn’t stay.”

She glanced away, squinting against the sun.

“Dad said you couldn’t stay.”

“How—are you?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Still upset, I guess.” Her eyes settled on the cup of tea in her hands. “Most of all for her taking me with her, though, when she left Dad. I—I liked my life as it was.”

She looked over at him.

“I guess kids aren’t really asked what they want when it comes to divorce.” She averted her eyes again.

He studied her face.

“I guess not.”

They didn’t speak for a while, enjoying their tea and each other’s presence, like they always had. It was as though they’d picked up where they’d left off eight years ago. Having Bunny around suddenly threw him back into a time when he’d felt more at peace with his life.

Bunny.

“Does anyone still call you Bunny?”

“Dad does.”

“I might. Unless you prefer it otherwise.”

“You can call me Bunny.”

She’d missed this.

The beach, the quiet. Him.

“Does it ever get—lonely out here?” she suddenly asked.

“Not so much that I would mind it.”

She turned towards him.

“I’m glad I came here. I really needed a change. And I’m glad you’re still here.”

Even after eight years, his presence did something to her. It was so easy to talk to him. And eight years had probably made him even more attractive.

Out here in the bright daylight, she could see that the crinkles around his eyes had deepened. His hair was not as neat as she remembered. He’d let it grow a tad longer too.

The tea was perfect. But then Loki had always made the best cups of tea.

“If you change your mind about a muse—I’m available.”

Loki stared at her for a moment, his gaze unreadable.

“Well, I could actually do with a muse for my paintings,” she said smugly. “If you feel inspired.”

She winked at him, then emptied her cup of tea and stood.

“Thank you for the tea.”

With that, she disappeared down the steps onto the beach.

Isobel padded through the lounge towards the veranda, carrying brushes and boxes of paint. Some paper towels. A spray bottle of water.

It was a beautiful morning, and she was ready to let things go. Paint herself a new life.

It had been a year since her mother’s death. Returning to the place where she’d felt happiest had been a deliberate decision. She wanted a fresh start.

She hadn’t only come here to paint. She’d come here to sort through her feelings. For the first time in far too long, she had time. Not studying. Not looking after her mum. No responsibilities. Not accountable to anyone.

For the first time in a long time, she felt free.

She placed a canvas on the ground.

A splash of blue here. Turquoise there. Indigo. A touch of golden gesso.

A spray of water.

She watched as tiny rivulets of colour began to move. Sprayed it again. They dissolved, forming clouds.

With a spatula, she worked the paint in thick layers over the other half of the canvas.

Oh yes. The colours were perfect.

It needed to dry before she could add more layers. The ocean breeze would help with that.

She picked up another canvas.

Phthalo green with a hint of blue.

Like his eyes.

Clear. Deep.

Like the ocean.

She’d always liked Loki’s eyes. As a teenager, she’d had quite a crush on him.

Now she could see why.

There was something about him. Something so… aloof. So otherworldly. The pale skin, black hair and those light eyes with a hint of green. Like ocean water.

He owed the looks to the Irish branch of his family. Most of his ancestry was Scottish, though.

Well, he certainly made a perfect muse.

A smile tugged at her lips.

And she would definitely find out what kind of novel he was writing.

Loki stared out the window.

At some point, he realised he still had his reading glasses on and pushed them up onto his head, rubbing his eyes.

He hadn’t had this in a while. This feeling of being stuck.

And it wasn’t just that.

It felt as though he was waiting for something.

Loki sighed and leaned back in his chair.

Make yourself a cuppa.

He rose, pulled the tin of Assam from the cabinet and filled the kettle. He stared at the flame on the stove for a moment.

Had he lost his fire?

Had he written everything that had moved him straight out of his system?

No.

Maybe he’d just become a little too adjusted to this kind of life. Maybe it was the pressure of writing a new book.

Did he even care if it became another bestseller?

Unfortunately, part of him did.

He’d wanted his books to become popular. But then, popularity wasn’t always the key to happiness. He hadn’t started writing for money or fame. He’d needed it. A way to channel all those unspoken emotions into something that made sense.

He longed for the days when he’d written simply for the love of writing. The times when he’d had no other choice than to find himself caught up in a story that wouldn’t let him go.

Obsessed with it.

That was why this place was so convenient. He was by himself. Nobody bothered him.

Does it ever get lonely out here?

Not really.

He preferred the solitude to endless chatter.

The kettle whistled, and he poured the sizzling water over the tea leaves. Then he reached for the little tea timer—a set of three hourglasses mounted side by side.

Three minutes. Four minutes. Five minutes.

For the perfect cup of tea.

A gift from his editor.

He turned it over and watched the sand slowly fill the bottom.

A muse.

Maybe he really could do with a muse.

“You’re making tea?” Her voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

Speak of the sun.

She padded into the lounge. Barefoot. Wearing an old shirt that was too big and covered in paint. Quite likely one of Chris’s. The floral pattern of her bikini peeked out from underneath, as she’d only loosely buttoned it.

“Would you like some?”

“I’d love some.”

He fished the strainer from his cup.

Time was up.

“I saw you working on the veranda.” He put the kettle on again and pulled a second cup from the cupboard overhead.

Bunny came up next to him. Watching.

Something she’d always done. She’d show up at his place unannounced just to watch him.

Curiously, he’d never minded it. Never minded having her around.

“I started. Just letting them dry now so I can get back to them later. What about you?”

Isobel enjoyed watching him because every move he made had a certain elegance. Deliberation and care.

She’d loved coming to his place. It was always peaceful here. Quiet.

Loki had always acknowledged her whenever she came around. Greeted her politely. Asked if she needed anything. Then gone about whatever he was doing.

He’d never complained about her being there.

“Did it never bother you?” she asked.

“Did what bother me?” He glanced up.

“That I just came around and invaded your—sanctuary?”

He looked at her for a moment.

“Never.”

The whistle of the kettle drew his attention away.

That sound again. Isobel smiled. It really reminded her of her childhood.

Loki’s voice did too.

Deep. Sonorous. Soothing.

She watched as he poured the water into her cup.

The days she’d spent at the beach with her parents had been happy ones. For years they’d spent most of the summer here, returning to the city in autumn. Loki was a big part of those memories.

Nostalgia.

She’d thought Loki might have lost some of the mystique she’d infused him with in her imagination.

He hadn’t.

If anything, he seemed even more captivating now that she’d read his books.

Loki looked up, and Isobel felt a rush of heat rise to her cheeks.

She quickly turned away and padded over to his desk, pulling up a footstool to sit on.

“So… what have you been writing?”

He placed the two cups on his desk and pushed one towards her, noticing a soft blush lingering on her cheeks.

“I haven’t, really,” he said with a sigh.

“Not even a little?”

He glanced up at her.

“Well, it’s—” He paused.

“Yes?” Bunny wiggled her eyebrows, making him snort involuntarily.

Extremely undignified.

“I have—a man who owns a second-hand bookshop somewhere in Scotland. Damp and windswept. A tiny cottage. Lives by himself.”

“Oh, that sounds promising. And?”

“That’s it. No and.”

“What does he look like? Dark hair? Green eyes? In his forties?”

He snorted again.

“Not all of my characters look like me.”

“Most of them do. And it would suit him. It’s a haunting look. I mean, put a dark-haired man into a herd of redheads—that makes him stand out.” She glanced at him over the rim of her teacup. “Gives him an air of mystery.”

“Maybe you should be writing stories?”

“I’m useless at that. But I’m really good at creating them in my head.”

There was a glint in her eyes that he couldn’t quite place.

He leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea.

“Dark, damp, windswept atmosphere. Dark, mysterious character. Second-hand bookshop?” Loki mused.

“Absolutely. He lives above the shop. Tiny, cosy flat. Or in a little cottage. Only the necessary amenities. A fireplace. A stove. No hot water.”

“He’s an ascetic?” Loki smirked.

She rolled her eyes.

“He’s just unpretentious. And he needs to be, because he’s hiding a secret.”

“And what’s his secret?”

“You’re the writer. You’ll figure it out.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

“A secret that unintentionally gets discovered.”

“A young student. Pretty, bubbly and witty. Maybe American?”

Loki’s eyes narrowed as he took another sip.

“Noisy and irritating. Most of all: nosy.”

“She’s writing her thesis.”

“On the moor?” He considered it. “Hm. You’re actually giving me ideas.”

He leaned forward, placing his cup on the table. The reading glasses came down as he typed some notes into his laptop.

Isobel took him in. Eight years ago, he hadn’t needed glasses, but they actually suited him.

“Told you, you just needed a muse.”

Loki’s eyes rested on her for another long moment, but he did not say anything.

“And you know what?” She smiled at him.

“What?”

“I think you should come over and get your hands dirty.”

One of his eyebrows lifted.

“I think you should paint something with me,” Isobel clarified.

“Oh.”

“No thinking, no pondering. Just do something with your hands. Get out of your head.”

“I can’t paint.”

“Of course you can. Everybody can.”

“I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

“You’ll love it. And the paint comes off with a bit of scrubbing.”

Loki pulled a face.

She emptied her tea and rose to her feet. Then she extended her hand to him.

He looked at it, then at her.

She waited patiently.

Finally, he placed his hand in hers and rose.

Bunny pulled him through the lounge and out onto the deck.

“Wait. Shouldn’t I change into something else—in case I get paint on my clothes?”

“You think too much. You’re too careful. You spend too much time in front of your computer.” She pulled him along. “There’s a pair of Dad’s pyjamas in the wardrobe. You can put them on.”

“I doubt Chris would want me to wear his pyjamas.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“I’m not sure about this.”

“Trust me. You’ll love it.”

He didn’t.

He looked absolutely ridiculous in Chris’s pyjamas. They had smugly grinning Cheshire cats all over them. But at least he wouldn’t get paint all over his pants.

Loki carefully placed a blob of paint on the canvas.

It didn’t look like more than that, even after he’d spread it out with the palette knife.

This paint was just so—dense.

The way she painted, it looked light and airy. Wisps of colour elegantly blending into each other.

His blobs were just—blobs. Of dense paint.

He took a brush and tried to break it up a little.

Maybe he could just—

A splash of water ruined his carefully constructed blob-work.

“You’re being too careful. Stop trying to make it look good,” she said.

Then she put her hand straight into the mixture of paint and water and smeared it across the canvas.

“Get your hands dirty, handsome. This isn’t an art class, it’s play. It’s fun. Nobody cares about the result. We can wash it off under the shower and start something new.”

He blinked at her.

Bunny grinned.

“Do I irritate you?”

Oh God, yes.

“Good,” she giggled.

He’d missed that sound.

“Now take your hands and get that irritation out on the canvas.”

He sighed and put his hands into the paint.

It was strangely liberating.

The paint felt cold beneath his fingers. Wet. Squishy.

He tried not to think about washing it off later.

“That’s it,” she praised him with another giggle. “Feel it. Enjoy it. Play.”

He smoothed the paint over the canvas with his hands, then dabbed some dots of white into the tempestuous arrangement of colours. Purple. Indigo. Grey. Smears of Indian yellow.

The white blotches reminded him of blossoms.

He added more.

A cloud of blossoms.

Maybe some pink?

He tried it, fascinated as it mixed with the white.

“Oh, this looks good. Try some water—here.” She held the spray bottle out to him.

“Just spray it on there?”

“Yup. And see what happens.”

Right.

The trouble was, his hands were covered in paint.

Bunny handed him a towel.

“Just wipe them on here.”

He eyed the towel. It was already covered in paint.

“Don’t worry. It gets washed regularly. The paint just doesn’t really come out.”

He wiped his hands and took the bottle.

He sprayed. Cautiously.

The paint blossomed into delicate patterns.

He sprayed again.

A lake formed.

“Tip it. It creates streaks.”

He did.

Fascinating.

He sprayed more water onto the canvas.

Damn it.

Too much.

“Dab it with a paper towel. It creates another cool effect.”

He looked up at her.

“Trust me,” she said with a smile.

An hour later, a smile still playing on his lips, Loki stood in Chris’s bathroom, scrubbing acrylic paint off his arms and hands.

Bunny stood beside him, chuckling.

“You’ve got some on your ear,” she said, reaching up and gently scraping it off with her fingernail. “Who would have thought you’d get so enthusiastic?”

“It was—unexpectedly pleasant.”

“After the initial irritation.”

He glanced up at her reflection in the mirror.

“Surprisingly irritating.”

“I’m quite good at that.” She grinned. “At least that’s what people tell me.”

“Good at irritating people? In a good way?”

“Well, most people don’t think of irritating as a good thing.”

He regarded her for a moment.

He realised then that she really had grown up. Her parents’ divorce and Cassy’s death had changed her, but not shattered her. Over the past eight years, she’d grown into her own person.

“You never irritated me before,” he said, shaking the water from his hands.

She met his gaze.

“You never gave me reason to.” Then she added smugly, “Until today.”

He reached for a towel, but she stopped him.

“Wait.”

Her fingers threaded through his. Gently.

His hand was warm. No callouses on his fingers. Neatly trimmed nails. Perfectly shaped, long fingers.

She used a brush to scrub a stubborn patch of paint from the inside of his thumb.

“There. Now you’re good.”

She watched as he dried his hands.

He was the same age as her dad, but so very different.

Always had been.